


Their Folly

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, PWP, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They really don't know how closely their thoughts and desires mirror each other...</p>
<p>
  <i>Some adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Folly

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

 

**Their Folly**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

The hour is late and though neither is anywhere near it, the city’s great moonlit river is an immutable symbol of all the complex and contrary boundaries that divide them. North of the geographical divide, she lies alone under crisp, clean sheets and thinks of him; south of it, he stands by himself under a torrent of warm water and thinks of her. Neither dares to imagine that the other might in any way mirror their frustrated thoughts and desires. She thinks she is too old, too plain and too insignificant to catch his eye; he thinks he is too selfish, too driven and too antagonistic to appeal to her. She believes he is too charismatic, too good-looking to notice her; he believes she is too intelligent, too wise to be interested in him. Perhaps they are perpetually star-crossed, the would-be lovers, even before a single tangible step is taken. Yet, still _she_ wonders what it would be like to have a claim on his great angry heart, and still _he_ wonders what it would be like to find peace and acceptance in her arms.

She chides herself for her foolishness, angrily tells herself that she is long past such things; yet, in her empty bed the restlessness holds her in its thrall, and the thoughts and desires that spin endlessly in her head threaten to tear irrevocably through her composure, her common-sense. She thinks of him, and in the lonely darkness those thoughts become a desperate, unrelenting torment from which she can’t escape. She thinks of him, and bitterly despises herself for the hand that slips slowly and reluctantly between her thighs.

He rages against his own weakness, hates himself for every tormenting flicker of fantasy that he can’t suppress, for the ungovernable need that threatens to plague every off-guard moment. He thinks of her as the water cascades heavily down over him and his body inevitably betrays him, the maddening throb as he inexorably hardens a hymn to her that sings in his blood. He is more pragmatic than she is, and he grasps himself without guilt – but he despises himself for purposely imagining that is her hand that begins to stroke him slowly and expertly.

She thinks of him. He thinks of her.

She wonders what it would feel like to have him deep inside her. He wonders what it would be like to _be_ deep inside her. She imagines the size of him, the strength of him; he imagines the slick heat of her, the tightness of her. They both think about the impossibility of finding surrender in the intense, secret place where their bodies could do nothing but meet and fuse. She strokes, he strokes. They both tremble at the secret sensual visions in their heads.

She thinks about what could be if they dared to trespass; he thinks the same. She wants to feel it, what they could have. So does he.

She wonders how it would be to give herself entirely to him, to trust him to care, to love. He wonders if he could ever prove to her that there is a part of him that is as gentle as it is kind, wonders if she could ever truly believe in him. She thinks about what she imagines lies beneath the expensive designer suits, the handmade shirts; thinks about muscle and bone and the smoothness of his skin. He thinks about laying her bare beneath him and possessing every inch of her; thinks about the infinite mystery of soft feminine curves and about the delicate hidden places he wants both to master and to worship.

Kept separate by so many things, it is here that they shiver together, in the silent dark hours where they are completely alone. She feels him inside her, slim fingers a poor but necessary substitute for what she wants from him, while he grunts and pushes into his own fist, slippery with soap, but nowhere near as tight, hot and needy as where he wants to be. Lost in dreams, they fuck each other; both too caught in everything they want so very much to face the stark truth of their solitude. No; it’s _his_ hand on her breast, _his_ fingertips tweaking her nipple to a hard point. It’s _her_ hand cradling his balls, gently rolling the hard stones until they draw up tight to his body.

She comes abruptly, experienced fingers bringing her suddenly to a release that is snatched greedily, ridden hard for a precious few seconds and guiltily abandoned far, far too quickly. Her heart hammers in her chest and she nearly cries in remorse and frustration, hating herself for everything she feels, everything she imagines. He is not so guilt-ridden, doesn’t feel the same shame as he comes with a deep, desperate groan, the cascading water instantly stealing away the pitiless evidence of his weakness as it spurts from him in a rapid succession of almighty heaves. He breathes hard, steadies himself against the wet, tiled wall as his knees tremble, but it’s regret, not humiliation, that burns him from the inside out.

This is their folly. Their mutual folly. Sweat and shame, misapprehension and foolishness. All the things they can’t accept much less bring themselves to say. Blue eyes bright with tears, dark eyes haunted by reservations. The half-empty bottle of wine on the kitchen counter, the glass of whiskey by the bed. The assumptions, the fears, the bitter taint of experience and self-condemnation. Their folly, perfect and never-ending.

He calls her. It’s usually that way. She is too cautious, too afraid of betraying her need. She answers quickly, though, despite the ever-increasing lateness of the hour and she does not question the paltry excuse he gives for disturbing her at home and so very late. He tries not to hope that she was waiting for him. They talk and they say nothing, their inability to communicate everything that means anything as pointed and painful as it’s always been. She does not tell him that his voice is like dark velvet; he does not admit to the shivers that go up and down his spine as he sprawls naked across his bed listening to the unconscious notes of soft promise she bestows on him.

She feigns good-natured tolerance; he pretends he is unaware of the hour. Miles apart, with the river between them, they dance to the oldest tune known to mankind, tempered by exquisite denial. She does not tell him that it was his name on her lips as she came to the imaginary rhythm of his cock inside her. He does not tell her that he is already brutally hard again, that her voice combined with the visions in his head is almost too much for him to bear. They do not speak of the sensual, secret place they’ve both seen in their mind’s eye, or of the oppressive weight of tension and desire.

“I should hang up,” he says for want of anything else. “Leave you to get some rest.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she says, because in the dark anything else could mean far too much.

“G’night, Grace,” he says, his knuckles white as he grips the receiver.

She smiles, but it’s a desperate smile, full of pain and frustration. “’Night, Boyd.”

It’s all just voices in the night and moonlight on the river. Neither of them dares to believe it could ever be more. The love, the lust – it all belongs to another world, a place where things are different, _they_ are different and the barriers between them are insignificant and fall easily.

Sleep doesn’t take either of them for a long, long time, and they are glad. Glad because nowadays sleep inevitably brings the impossible, wonderful dreams that scare and torment them both so very much.

_\- the end -_


End file.
